“Put. A. Gun. In. Your. Mouth.” Bowen repeats, his voice reaching a crescendo that feels like a hammer to my chest.
“And it happened to me, not you!” I shout across the counter with such intensity that my voice cracks.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to tamp down the overflow of emotion that I so desperately hate. When I’m satisfied that I won’t melt into a blubbering puddle on the floor, I open my eyes and blink back the residual tears.
Bowen’s voice softens, “Back then, you ran and never looked back. What changed?”
Because Colson’s nice? Kind of. Sometimes he’s not nice. Sometimes he’s really not nice. Maybe what changed is that Colson gave me a reason to believe it didn’t happen the way it seemed, a reason to believe there was a more acceptable—albeit still frightening—explanation that justified the reason it happened. Because who wouldn’t prefer a freak neurological event over the possibility a psychopath tried to murder them?
Bowen’s voice jolts me back to reality, “I know.” He’s staring at me, stone faced.
I stare back, letting the dread settle in the pit of my stomach, “You know what?”
“I know why you can’t wrap your mind around any of this, and it’s the same reason he thinks he can get away with it. He knows you don’t want to believe he’s that kind of person.” Bowen shakes his head, “Brett, you prepare for the worst, which makes you smart, but you also hope for the best in people. It’s admirable and sometimes I wish I could be more like you, but I think it blinds you to how things really are, and you don’t see the signs.”
He’s not wrong. Isn’t that what Barrett just asked me just days ago—if I’m normalizing Colson’s behavior because I want so bad for him to be normal? Add it to the list of ways I’m losing control of reality.
Bowen pushes off the counter and skirts the island, settling against the range right across from me, “It used to be you couldn’t even talk about this guy without having a panic attack. Now, you’re buddies with him and the fact he’s been arrested for the very thing you’re afraid of doesn’t bother you?”
“What do you want me to do, quit my job?” The lump in my throat reduces my voice to a near whisper, “I have to try and make all of this normal so that I can function every day,” I swallow hard, pushing the lump back down, “he showed up out of nowhere and I have to try to treat him like anyone else I see at work because there’s nothing else that I can do.”
“Exactly,” Bowen grits his teeth, “he showed up out of nowhere. I don’t want you to disappear and someone find you rotting in a ditch somewhere just because you wanted to pretend everything was normal.”
I cringe, squeezing my eyes shut as I shake my head, “No,” I snap, “if he wanted to do anything, he would’ve done it already.”
Wouldn’t he?
“Are you that blind?” Bowen gives me a look that makes me realize how naïve I sound, “Did you ever stop to think that he’s toying with you? You watch more true crime than anyone I’ve ever met. Why do those psychos stalk and murder people? I don’t know how his fucked-up mind works.”
I long blink, having nothing to counter with that doesn’t sound ridiculous.
“But you do,” Bowen bows his head, his eyes searching, “and maybe that’s what gets your panties wet.”
My eyes round and I lift my head to meet his gaze.
What?
I can’t read Bowen’s face. It’s a look of curiosity with a shadow of judgement and contempt. But it’s so subtle that I wonder if he’s going to burst out laughing at the absurdity of his statement. I just stare back, my mind swimming, not knowing what to say.
Bowen pushes off the counter and steps toward me, closing the space between us. He takes a stance square in front of me and rests his hands on the granite on either side of my waist. Then he leans down until his nose is almost touching my forehead. Usually, I would relish being this close to Bowen because whenever he comes close, a wave of affection is soon to follow. But right now, it’s nothing like that. Right now, he’s looking at me the way a cat looks at a cornered mouse.
“You know,” Bowen lowers his voice, “he probably walks by your office, just to see if you’re there.”
The Bowen I know is gone, and I don’t recognize him anymore. His presence is intimidating and oppressive, nothing like I’ve ever seen. His voice turns foreboding, like a distant rumble of thunder signaling a coming storm.
“Does he come visit you on his break?” Bowen tilts his head and stares into my eyes with unnerving focus, “Does he sit in your office and chat? Ever asked you to lunch?”
The hairs raise on my arms and goosebumps explode over my skin. I’m suddenly overcome with the same eerie, nervous feeling I get when I’m alone and I feel like I’m being watched. Except I’m not alone right now. Instead, Bowen is towering over me, and it feels like he knows more than he should.
“What do you talk about?” He gives a shrug and pushes his face so close to mine, his nose brushes my cheek, “Words matter, Brett.” It doesn’t sound like a question, but rather like he’s watching the events of the past two days play out right in front of him.
And he’s fucking angry.
I don’t think Bowen’s ever been angry at me for anything. And the one time it sounds like it, it seems like he knows about something he shouldn’t. That is, unless he’s just really perceptive and noticed that I’m turning into more of a basket case every day. Whatever it is, he’s big and he’s stifling and I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my skin.
My voice trembles as I look up at him in confusion, “Why are you saying this?”
“Because I know you, Brett. Once you get over your Fort Knox exterior bullshit, you’re actually a very passionate person. It only took me a few hours to figure you out.” Bowen leans closer, bumping my forehead with his, “And I know how passionate you can be when you start to care about someone.”
I can’t even bring myself to look Bowen in the eye, which is humiliating because I know what he’s doing and I’m still too fucking scared to say anything.
He lowers his voice to nearly a whisper, “Do you think when he’s sitting in front of you, he’s reminiscing,” he lets his gaze travel down my body, “thinking about what you look like? Wondering if you feel the same as you did the last time he was inside you?”
My stomach turns sour and I feel like the room’s gone cold.
I tense my jaw to still my trembling chin, “Can you please stop?” It comes out as a scratchy whisper.
But Bowen’s not done, “Did you let him kiss you?” he asks softly, “Did you let him bend you over right there or did you have the decency to go somewhere else?”
The rage and terror finally boil over and I slam my hand on the edge of the counter, “Just stop it!” I shout, squeezing my eyes shut as the hot tears finally run over.
“Why?” Bowen scoffs, pushing away from the counter, “Does it bother you? How does that make you feel?” In a flash, he slams his fist into his chest, “How do you think I feel?” he shouts with such force that I flinch and my hands instinctively fly up to my face.
Once I recover, I drag my palms across my cheeks, trying in vain to stop the flow.
“Brett,” Bowen’s demeanor suddenly changes, his face relaxes, and his voice evens out, “What did you do?” he asks ominously.
Suddenly, I hear Barrett’s voice in my head.
